This story has now broken the 400 review ceiling, and it only took 35 chapters! For just 'some tale about Petunia' (as one of the said reviews put it) not at all bad. My sincere thanks to all those who do review, because there is a difference between low review totals and humiliatingly low review totals, if you get my meaning. :p

Susan M. M.: Ah, yes, but just remember that though Dudley is just as jealous as Ron is of Viktor Krum, he's not a redhead, and he's learned – remember Chapter 1 – not to show his feelings. Not overtly, anyway; though I suspect punching Ron relieved them a bit. The reverse is also true. It's also true that since both boys appreciate Hermione, no matter how badly they may express it, that's a vote for them.

You also said that you thought the pretender thought little of Petunia because she was Muggle-born; but, if you check back carefully, he doesn't know that. She decided not to tell him, and he also doesn't know she's Harry's aunt. I point this out because it now becomes important.

I tried not to make the transformation too obvious, but I see that I fooled absolutely no one, and you all guessed the form without any trouble, too. *Sigh.* I shouldn't have mentioned Filch! Giveaway!

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE CAT CAME BACK

In which Petunia re-enters, stage right, armed only with a small, chatty dragon, and confronts a Death Eater; thereby proving that she is a Gryffindor in truth as well as name.

Petunia fled through the door so quickly that she lost traction on the stone floor, skidded into the hallway and nearly collided with a collapsed suit of armour, lying there in pieces. The door slammed shut behind her. From a great distance above, she saw the head of a small dragon staring intently down at her from a niche in the wall. She tried to speak, but only a frustrated feline yowl came out.

What on earth was that? Is Mrs. Norris about? Is that why he mentioned Filch? Then she saw her reflection in the polished surface of the armour, and gave a strangled yelp of surprise. She saw there a very familiar-looking cat, if not Filch's familiar.

Though she found Mrs. Figg's feline menagerie rather overpowering, not to mention smelly, and she disliked the prying, spying Mrs. Norris, Petunia had always been rather fond of cats in general, a taste that all of her original family had shared. Throughout her childhood, the Evanses had always had a pet cat or two. Or sometimes even three or four. Her mother favored elegant Siamese; Lily had loved white golden-eyed kittens, and her father had an enormous Norwegian Forest cat that sat on his shoulder each morning while he read the paper. This cat had appeared at the front door of their home one day and had simply adopted him. It always amused Petunia and Lily that both their father and his cat familiar had bright green eyes and untidy curling reddish hair. Familiar, Petunia thought suddenly; why had she used that word? Was that the reason they always had cats and not dogs? She remembered Dumbledore's remarks about Squib lines; she had never before suspected that her father was of wizarding descent, but now that she thought about it, there had been signs—and not just the familiar. Her family had laughed about the cat's habit of peering down at the newspaper, almost as if it was reading it-which very possibly it was, now that Petunia thought about it.

Petunia's cat of choice in childhood had been a rangy grey and black kitten with needle-pointed ears, yellow- green eyes, and pancake-sized paws. Her father had told her that it was a polydactyl cat—one born with the twice the usual number of toes on his feet. Petunia remembered reading that such cats had been popularly supposed to be witches' familiars throughout history, and hunted down and destroyed as such in Puritan days.

She had been teased and criticized in the neighbourhood for keeping a 'deformed' cat, much to her dismay; she had been rather more moved by public opinion in those days than she was now. But the kitten, who she solemnly named Branwell – she was deep in her Brontë stage at the time - was lively, inquisitive and a great deal of fun. And it was a female version of her beloved Bran that she saw in the reflective armour, in the hallway of Hogwarts Castle, a good many years since her very first familiar had died in the fire that had also claimed her parents.

My God, I did it! I managed an animagus transformation! I can't believe it!

Algy landed next to her on the floor and looked intently at her. "Petunia?" he said doubtfully, sniffing her. Petunia sat up on her haunches, and yowled again.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Algy asked, even having the sense to whisper.

Petunia froze. She had been so distracted by her transformation, which had undoubtedly saved her life, that she had forgotten Moody's predicament. I have to change back, right now!

On her first try, she was unsuccessful, and she felt a spasm of terror. I'm going to be stuck in this form forever, I know it, I know it!

Curiously, though, as soon as she panicked, the impetus to change back flooded her, and she suddenly found herself sprawled on the floor of the hallway, no longer a cat. Every bone in her body ached, and there was a pain in her side where the faux Moody had kicked her. She felt terrifically relieved, but only for a second. She immediately noticed that two things that she had possessed when she had entered Moody's office were now missing: the invisibility cloak and her wand. And even after only a moment's consideration, she was convinced that there was only one place that she could have left them: the crater under the trunk. If the faux Moody found them there, she was certain, he would know his cover was blown, and he would probably kill the real Moody immediately, and then escape.

There was no time to be lost. I told the boys to run for a teacher in a situation like this, didn't I, and so what am I going to do now? I'm going to go right back in there, without my wand, without the cloak, and with my dragon. The boys were right, I'm afraid, there's just no time for anything else. And if I ever get the chance, I'll tell them so, rotten role model that I am.

Petunia staggered to her feet, braced herself against the wall, and held out her arm to Algy, who obligingly hopped onto it. There was no time to formulate a plan, so she whirled around and started pounding on the door to Moody's office.

At first there was no answer. Petunia pounded harder on the door, an surge of panic propelling her. Then, finally: "Who's there?" Moody's voice said.

"Hello?" Petunia cried loudly, ignoring the question. "Hello?"

Moody's voice repeated the question, but again Petunia ignored it, and kept pounding.

The door opened a crack, and the magical blue eye regarded her. Petunia didn't bother with politeness. "Let me in!" she demanded. "I have news for you. About that man you were chasing on Christmas Night."

That'll fetch him, or I'm not a Muggle-born. Indeed, she was right, the door now opened half way, and he gave her an intent look. "Do you know where he is, then?" he asked. Has he already killed the real Moody, I wonder? How much time has elapsed between my eviction in animagus form and this conversation? Oh, damn, I'm not sure -!

Petunia collected herself enough to remember Mrs. Figg's warning about highly skilled wizards: don't look them in the eye. So she dropped her gaze demurely and said: "Well, not exactly, but I've discovered something that may help you find him."

The door now opened all the way, and the faux Moody motioned her inside. Petunia wondered if she'd ever walk out again, but she didn't hesitate. He closed the door behind her, and when he turned around, his attention suddenly became fixed upon Algy, perched on her shoulder, and looking about himself critically.

"What's that?" he said.

Algy bristled. "Good day to you, too," he said sharply, "and it's who and not what." Petunia restrained a whoop of hysterical laughter with some difficulty.

"This is Algernon," she said, even managing to sound calm, omitting the surname this time. This man wouldn't cater to the hurt feelings of miniature dragons, she felt sure. Algy glared at the faux Moody, who stared back at him, astonished.

"You mentioned that my great-great-grandfather was hauled up in front of the Wizengamot," Petunia said. "You are now being introduced to one of the reasons why."

The faux Moody's face relaxed, and he even looked amused. "He was a pureblood, your grandfather, wasn't he?"

"Yes, of course," Petunia said, in an offended tone. He'd expect an answer like that if I were the person he thinks that I am.

"No offence meant," he said.

Petunia shrugged. "None taken."

"Did your family – take sides?" Moody asked carefully, "In the late War, I mean."

"Well – my father did think the Dark Lord had some sound ideas –" Petunia said, feeling her way.

"Was he imprisoned for his opinions?" My father? He was Welsh nationalist, but that was the extent of it. And he would have never hurt anyone, unlike you, you despicable wanker. "Well, he was never actively recruited, you understand. But his sympathies were engaged, or so I understand."

"And you?" Moody said, looking searchingly at her.

"Well, you know, I've never been really been involved in politics - though, I must admit, my husband was quite interested."

"To what extent?" he asked. "Active involvement?"

Petunia nodded, her expression mournful.

"And where is he now?"

Petunia saw no reason to lie. "He was - institutionalized," she said primly, her tone warning him not to pursue the subject too closely. And if he thinks I mean Azkaban, so much the better.

"I see," said Moody. He does think I mean Azkaban! Hallelujah!

"How long has he been there?" the faux Moody asked.

How long ago was the War? I hope I can remember my wizarding history properly. "It must be twelve years now, or so, I suppose. There was a trial – that took some time." It wasn't the type of trial you think, but thank God I'm not really lying, if you're one of those wizards who can tell things like that.

"Are you divorced, then?" the faux Moody asked. Petunia detected disapproval in his voice, and knew she would have to be careful.

"Yes, we are, a friend of mine paid for it." Also true. "My husband's family was angry about it, but what could I do? We have a child, and I was afraid of being arrested myself if I didn't disassociate myself from him. What would have become of our son if that had happened? I hadn't inherited the Manor then, you see, and I was desperately short of money. I couldn't afford trouble." True yet again.

"Did they question you?" the faux Moody asked her.

"A little – but I didn't tell them anything!" Petunia said. "And that was after my husband was already in their custody. When they arrested him, my husband just went mad and started assaulting Aurors, and after that there was really no hope of acquittal."

"I see."

"No, you don't! He got life imprisonment, was I expected to wait?"

"Was anyone?" the faux Moody said, rather bitterly.

"I still love him," Petunia said. May God strike me dead for that giant, giant lie. "But there's nothing I can do for him. Not where he is."

"Suppose," the man said, "that I could get him released? Would you be interested?"

"How would you do that?" Petunia asked, feeling flustered, trying to conceal her dismay at the very idea.

"Never mind that. But if you were willing, perhaps we could arrange it."

Petunia managed a simper, while Moody considered her thoughtfully. He seemed to make up his mind: "I could use some assistance in return, if you were interested?"

"Oh, of course," Petunia said, giving him a rather foolish smile. "I always like to oblige when I can." There's an awful double entendre if there ever was one.

"You were going to tell me about the man I questioned you about?" the faux Moody said. Petunia told him about stumbling over a place on the path to Hogwarts where there had been several broken branches, marking what appeared to be a struggle – "I thought I should let you know." He'll think I'm really stupid when he hears that.

He did, though he pretended that the information was valuable enough for him to check it out. It might have been at one time; too late now. Then he returned to more important things.

"I need a place to keep certain things that are getting rather too dangerous to store here," he said. "The Manor – does it have a cellar?"

"Oh, yes, of course it does," Petunia said. "An ordinary cellar, and wine cellar, as well. Would that do?"

"It might," faux Moody said, "if they were secure."

"They're very secure," Petunia said, "and they have good, solid locks."

"With windows?"

"The wine cellar is windowless."

"There is a direct floo to the school from the Manor, is there not?"

"Yes, certainly."

"Your absolute discretion would be required," the faux Moody said. "I must warn you now; if you don't keep silent, you will regret it. I will kill you, your husband, and your son. In that order." He spoke quite casually. I guess killing is like anything else; it gets easier if you practice. This man has done his practicing.

"If you get my husband released," Petunia said, trying to look as if she meant it, "I'll do anything." To prevent it.

"Very well," the faux Moody said, with a smug smile, which Petunia pretended not to notice. He motioned her into his bedroom, and Petunia reacted to this as she felt a pure blooded idiot would – flirtatiously. The faux Moody just barely concealed his impatience. "I need to show you something, and no, it's not that." This man is interested in power and revenge, not sex. I'll give that a Hallelujah, too.

He pointed out the trunk to her and then opened it, using a key attached to his belt; murmured 'Lumos' and motioned her over. Petunia edged forward, though as far away from the man as she could; she feared the faux Moody meant to toss her into the crater with the real one, and slam the trunk lid shut; she peered into the barely illuminated gloom at the bottom of the crater.

The real Moody lay at the bottom of the pit, face up, eyes closed. Petunia looked frantically around the crater for her wand and the invisibility cloak; but she could see neither of them. She gasped, for the sake of the audience. The faux Moody was obviously pleased with her reaction.

"Who is that?" she asked the man beside her.

"That's the man I need to hide with you at the Manor," he answered.

"He looks like – he looks like you," Petunia faltered.

"No," said the faux Moody, "I look like him." He produced a silver flask from his pocket, opened it, and poured a little of the liquid from inside it into his palm. "Do you know what this is?"

Petunia shook her head, though she suspected the correct answer. The person he thinks I am wouldn't know, and couldn't guess.

The faux Moody laughed. The sound was odd; perhaps because he was no longer imitating the real Moody's voice, Petunia decided. His voice now sounded lighter and younger.

"It's Polyjuice Potion," he said.

Petunia stared at it blankly. "I see," she said. That's how he's done it – really clever. You have to drink it every hour on the hour to maintain the impersonation.

The faux Moody capped the flask and stowed it away inside his robe. "Come with me," he said to Petunia, "I need your help."

Petunia nearly baulked at climbing back into the crater, especially as he made her leave Algy perched on the edge of the trunk. Biting her lip, she managed it, dropping down to the floor of the pit, and kneeling beside the unconscious man. Close up, she could see the livid bruises on the face of the real Moody and wondered whether he could live much longer; he looked very thin, and rather wasted.

"He doesn't look well," she said, to the faux Moody, who had clambered down himself, and stood above her.

"He's well enough," he said curtly. "I need him for the potion."

That's why his hair's been hacked off. I wondered.

"Here," the faux Moody said to her, "take this." He handed Petunia his wand, obviously intending that she would hold it, the Lumos spell still animating the tip of it, high in the air so that he could see to lift his comatose prisoner.

It was the sort of mistake only a supremely self-confident wizard could make. As soon as Petunia grasped the wand, the real Moody opened his eyes and sat up. Petunia saw that he had been lying on her wand and the invisibility cloak; now he seized her wand from the floor and used it to cast a spell; exactly what, Petunia wasn't sure. The faux Moody dodged it, moving away from Petunia and his own wand as he did so. Though he now was essentially unarmed, he was obviously able to cast spells without a wand, and he now sent one toward the real Moody, who rolled away from it.

In the small space, the spells ricocheted terrifyingly, whizzing past her ear. Petunia decided that in this case, smaller was better, and transformed. She dragged Moody's wand out of range with her mouth, and withdrew to a corner, watching fearfully while the men fought.

Petunia had never seen a wizarding duel before, and she found it a terrifying experience. It was obvious that both men were gifted at it, and that they hated each other enough to kill. It was like someone had let off a series of ear-splitting fireworks in the pit. And if the faux Moody wins, I'm doomed; I won't get another chance to escape.

Even with the advantage of a wand, the real Moody – Petunia could tell which was which by the absence of the magical eye and the wooden leg – seemed to be rapidly tiring, which was hardly surprising. Petunia decided to even the playing field. The two men were so intent on each other that they seemed to have forgotten about her, especially easy to do after she had transformed. The faux Moody now had his back to her, and she leapt upon it. She climbed up to his shoulders – he was moving rapidly and didn't seem to even notice – and unsheathed her claws. They look nice and sharp, don't they? Good. She now aimed for his head, clawing viciously at his good eye. He screamed, and tried to dislodge her. She clung ever more tightly, and used one of her claws to dislodge the magic eye, which now fell to the floor: the faux Moody was effectively blinded. In the country of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. The real Moody bellowed "Stupify!" and hit his opponent full in the chest with the spell. He fell like a tree, Petunia rolling away from his head as he hit the ground with a thud. She transformed back to human form.

"Nice work," the surviving Moody said to her quietly, and fainted, joining his facsimile on the floor of the pit.